She reached across the desk and snapped the laptop lid shut with a flat plastic click.

“We don’t need to audit each other like strangers under this roof,” she said.

“Then where did the rest of the three thousand go?” I asked.

“The property tax bill on the house is due in winter, not in September.”

She got up and shoved the chair back into the kneehole of the desk until the wood knocked against the frame.

“Your father never once questioned how I handled the kitchen money,” she said, her voice falling into the flat tone she always used when she wanted an argument over.